The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Read online

  Georgie hugged her brothers in turn and endured their good-natured teasing, whilst she stuck her nose in the air and told them they must treat her with respect now that she was a duchess. Naturally, this had them all falling about laughing.

  Mama stopped crying long enough to kiss her and to tell her not to forget the advice she’d given her last night… a comment which made Georgie blush and set her brothers off howling again until her father told them to belt up before he made them.

  Georgie walked to her Pa, who swallowed hard and looked as if he were facing a firing squad, his expression was so resolute.

  “I’ll be back in the spring, Pa. Rochford promised,” she said, taking hold of his fingers as she had when she was a little girl.

  His large hand grasped hers. “Ah, Georgie. I’m going to miss ye something fierce, ma bonnie girl. Be happy, aye? Or I’ll have to fetch ye back again.”

  Georgie swallowed a sob and hugged him tightly. “I’ll miss you too, Pa.”

  He gave her a bear hug, the kind that had always made her feel better as a child.

  “I love ye.”

  “Love you too.”

  Papa sniffed and cleared his throat. “Away with ye, now, duchess. Ye have a husband, and a new life awaiting ye, and… and I’m so proud of you I could burst,” he added, his deep voice unsteady.

  Georgie kissed his cheek and turned away before her composure deserted her entirely, to find Rochford waiting for her. His gaze was intent, and Georgie smiled nervously as he held out his hand to her.

  “I’ll take good care of her,” he promised her family, before helping her up into the carriage.

  And then they were on their way.

  The so-called ‘small property’ in Wick that Rochford had neglected for so long turned out to be a fine Palladian country house on a large estate about two miles outside of town. It was also in excellent repair, a fact that became evident as the housekeeper greeted them and showed Georgie the main rooms before taking them to their private apartment.

  “How strange that I see no sign of extensive building work underway, your grace,” Georgie remarked, once they had been left alone.

  “I only employ neat builders,” Rochford replied gravely.

  “And if you consider this a small property, I am quite terrified at the prospect of living at Mulcaster.”

  “As well you should be,” he replied, which was not entirely encouraging. “It’s vast, and draughty, and bloody inconvenient, and bits fall off it with alarming regularity.”

  “Home sweet home,” Georgie said wryly.

  Rochford hesitated, looking anxious. “I told you Mulcaster was not the most welcoming of homes. It’s yours now, though, love. So you must do with it as you wish, but… I wasn’t entirely honest about this place.”

  “Oh?” Georgie asked, though it was obvious there had been no renovation done here recently.

  “I only just bought it,” he confessed, looking sheepish.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I didn’t own it when I first arrived at Wildsyde. That was a lie. I’ve spent the time looking for somewhere close to your parents so you could visit them when you wanted to, but we didn’t have to stay with them. Not that I don’t appreciate their hospitality, but—”

  Georgie burst out laughing. “Oh, Rochford. You wicked man. You made up the entire story.”

  “Of course I did. I had to have a reason for turning up on your doorstep, didn’t I?” he protested.

  “I thought I’d given you a good enough reason,” Georgie said, walking closer to the window and looking out. It was raining now, unsurprisingly, and a fine mist had covered the landscape, shrouding it in grey smoke.

  “For turning up in a month, or a week or two perhaps, yes,” he admitted, and Georgie’s heart picked up as she heard his steps grow closer to her. “But not the same day.”

  “You’re very impatient,” she said, hearing her voice quaver as she became increasingly breathless. He was standing close behind her now, the heat of him warming her back as if she stood before a fire.

  “I am,” he admitted. “The past months have been a dreadful strain.”

  “Poor Alden,” she whispered. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly now, the pretty corset she’d worn especially for him suddenly far too tight.

  “I love the way you say my name,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair.

  “Alden,” she said again, smiling as he breathed in her scent and his arms went around her.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Yes. Terrified,” she admitted, turning in his arms. “But not of this, not for tonight. Only… well, the rest of it.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “Are you afraid too?” she asked, surprised to see the understanding in his eyes.

  “Scared to death,” he said with a crooked smile. “I’m afraid I’ll make a mess of things, that you’ll hate Mulcaster, that you’ll hate me. I don’t want you to be unhappy, Georgie.”

  “Then I won’t be,” she said simply. “We’ll make it work. You and me. We’ll figure it out between us.”

  He nodded. “Let’s not worry about all that just now,” he suggested, tracing the line of her jaw with a gentle finger. “Not when there are much pleasanter things to concern ourselves with.”

  “Very well,” Georgie said, trying not to sound as though her teeth were chattering with nerves. She’d meant what she’d said. She wasn’t afraid of him, or of their wedding night, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t nervous. “I’d like a bath first,” she said in a rush.

  Rochford nodded. “Of course. Your maid will see to it. I’ll return in an hour, shall I?”

  “No.”

  He hesitated, a crease of concern at his brow as Georgie realised how that sounded.

  “I mean. You don’t have to go, I… I thought you m-might like to help me,” she stammered, blushing scarlet now. “With the bath, I mean.”

  Rochford stared at her and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “If you want to, I mean. Y-You don’t—”

  “I want to,” he blurted. “Christ, yes, please. I want to.”

  Georgie let out a breath of laughter. “Well. Good.”

  “Good.” He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll er… see to it.”

  Rochford told himself to calm down and stop behaving like a green boy, but he was a bag of nerves. He had been in a stew of anticipation for days now, but when Georgie had asked him if she wanted to help her bathe, he’d damn near expired of shock.

  Rochford had skill enough with women, but had only known the experienced kind who wanted paying for their services. The thought of deflowering a virgin had him all on edge, appalled at the idea he might hurt her, that she might scream or cry, or hate him for bringing her pain.

  “Bridal nerves, eh?” Joe quipped with amusement as he bent to remove Rochford’s boots and stockings.

  Rochford glowered at him, about to make some scathing retort when he decided he might be better off admitting the truth. “Yes, if you must know,” he grumbled irritably. “Do you think she’ll—? I mean, I don’t want to—”

  Joe sat back on his haunches and gave Rochford an assessing look. “If you’re looking for advice, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” he remarked dryly. “However, she’s no shrinking violet, and women have babies, don’t they? I know you’re built like an ox, but you’re not a bleedin’ elephant. I reckon she’ll accommodate you without bodily harm.”

  Despite the sarcasm, Rochford relaxed. “That’s true. I’m being an idiot, aren’t I?”

  Joe smiled and shook his head. “No, your grace. Actually, I think you have the makings of a decent husband. Now, give me that waistcoat and go and take care of your bride.”

  Rochford handed the waistcoat over and padded barefoot to the door adjoining his wife’s chamber. He knocked lightly and entered. The bedroom was empty, but the scent of perfumed oil hung on the warm air, and he followed i
t to the small bathing room. Georgie sat at an elegant dressing table, clad in a silk dressing gown, whilst her maid took down her hair.

  “Leave us,” Rochford barked at the maid, though he’d not meant to sound so hard.

  The woman shot a quick look at Georgie and dipped a curtsey, but Rochford did not miss the quick press of the maid’s hand to her mistress’s shoulder as she went out. No doubt the woman thought him a brute now, but there was no help for that.

  Georgie watched him approach in the mirror. Feeling as if his heart might pound its way out of his chest, Rochford touched a hand to the thick silk of her hair.

  “Could you take the rest of the pins out for me? Now you’ve frightened poor Meg away,” she added with a smile.

  “Didn’t mean to bark at her,” he said gruffly.

  “I know. It’s fine. We all need to get used to each other.”

  Carefully, Rochford undid each heavy coil, captivated by the way it slid through his fingers as the long locks fell to midway down her back.

  “By God, but you are lovely,” he said, his voice rough. “I’ve wanted you since the first minute I saw you. Did you know that?”

  “You mean when you knocked me on my arse and left me there,” Georgie remarked, quirking one eyebrow.

  Rochford hesitated, studying her face to be certain she was teasing him. “Yes. Then.”

  “Why didn’t you help me up then?”

  “I was afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid to see revulsion in your eyes if you had to touch me, afraid of what you might see in mine. It’s one thing to know you’re not wanted, it’s quite another when the person not wanting you knows you want them more than anything else.”

  “Oh, Alden.” Georgie turned on the seat and stood up. “You are too hard, both on yourself and others. You are everything I want. I think I have known that for a long time. I only feared you would swallow me up, that you’d not make room for me. But you will. You have already, haven’t you?”

  He nodded, his gaze going to the silk ribbons holding her dressing gown closed and all coherent thought vanishing.

  “Georgie,” he said desperately.

  “Unwrap me, then,” she said with a cheeky grin.

  Rochford wished he could say something tender or romantic, but his tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth and he couldn’t even swallow. He reached out and tugged at the first ribbon, and then the second, each breath harder to find than the last, as one after another the bows fell apart and exposed a tantalising glimpse of skin. Finally, they were all undone. Rochford lifted his hands to her shoulders and slid the silken material away. It fell with a soft flurry and pooled at her feet, and what remained of his breath evaporated.

  “God in heaven,” he murmured, gazing at her.

  Georgie let out an uncertain laugh and crossed her arms, trying to cover herself, but Rochford caught at her wrists, stopping her.

  “You are perfection. Don’t hide, please. I want to look at you.”

  He stared, unable to believe this woman was not only his, but happy to be so. Life had never been especially kind to him. At times it had been bloody cruel, but now…. Perhaps this was God’s idea of balance. Perhaps he’d had to suffer through the past to be worthy of this moment. If he’d known that had been the deal, he’d have agreed without hesitation. It would have been worth it for this moment alone.

  He was about to touch a hand to her lovely skin when she shivered, and he cursed himself for an unfeeling devil. She must be chilly, and her bath water would grow cold. So instead, he took her hand and led her to the bath, helping her step in.

  She sighed with pleasure as she sank into the warm, scented water and Rochford smiled. “Like Botticelli’s Venus.”

  She laughed and shook her head. “She was fair, and coming out of the sea, not climbing into a bath.

  “If I say you’re Venus, then you are. I am a duke, you know. You can’t contradict me. I’m always right.”

  “Is that so?” she replied, one dark eyebrow arching. “I may have trouble remembering that.”

  “You’ll prove me wrong every day of our married life, I don’t doubt,” he retorted.

  “I’ll give it a good try,” she said sweetly, and Rochford laughed, unaccustomed to bantering with a woman in such intimate circumstances, but finding he liked it very much. He was about to reach for the soap and a sponge when her hand touched his arm.

  “Take it off, Alden,” she said, tugging at his shirt and blushing, though whether that was the heat of the water or embarrassment, he wasn’t certain. “You’re not the only one who wants to see.”

  He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Georgie. I should have said before, but this….” He touched a hand to the scar on his cheek. “It’s not the only one.”

  Her expression softened, and she turned to lean against the side of the tub. “Do you think it will make me want you less? Because you’re a fool if you do.”

  Rochford sighed, but nodded. It wasn’t as if he could conceal it from her, and he’d not let her hide from him, had he? Quickly, before he could think any more about it, Rochford stripped off his shirt and tossed it aside. He heard her quick intake of breath and looked at her, wondering if he’d see pity, though he knew better than to think she would revile him. Every part of his body tightened at the look in her eyes, at the desire burning there.

  “Come here,” she whispered.

  He knelt beside the bath and shivered as her hands ran over him, over the scars that no one else got to see. They striped the base of his neck and one shoulder, not so deep and ragged as the one on his cheek, but ugly enough. At least the skin on his body was smooth, the measles scars mostly confined to his face, neck, and a little on his shoulders.

  “So big, and hot.”

  Her voice trembled, as did her fingers as they explored his chest, smoothing through the dark hair that curled there and arrowed down his belly. She looked up at him and Rochford thought he’d die if he didn’t kiss her. He ducked his head and took her mouth and she pulled him closer, opening to him at once. She kissed him back, matching his urgency with her own, with breathless little sighs and gasps that lit him on fire.

  “I want to get out,” she said in a rush, making as if she would stand, but Rochford stopped her. He wanted the pleasure of washing her first, even if it killed him.

  “No. Wait. Let me,” he managed, fighting through a haze of lust to remember how to speak.

  He snatched up the soap and sponge and made a lather, and then reached for her foot. She made a little squeal of protest as he soaped her toes.

  “Sorry, ticklish,” she admitted, making him smile, charmed beyond reason.

  He washed her long, slender leg, fighting not to become distracted when he got to her shapely thigh, but concentrating long enough to reach for her other foot. He repeated the motion, and then soaped her hands, her wrists, moving up her arms to her shoulders and the back of her neck. He watched the rivulets of soap slide down her elegant spine until she lay back again, and he slid the sponge down between her breasts. At this point, he decided enough was enough and discarded the sponge, using his hands instead, caressing the wet, silken skin of her breasts as her nipples grew hard beneath his touch. He cupped and gently squeezed, toying with the taut little peaks as her breathing picked up. She let out a sigh of content, her head falling back against his chest, and he leaned down, pressing his lips to her shoulder.

  She’d told him he was impatient, and that was the truth, but he’d never felt such desperate need in all his days. He could not take any more torture. Reaching into the bath, he lifted her up, water sluicing everywhere, soaking him as he stood.

  “Rochford!” she squealed, but she was laughing as she clung to his neck, so he ignored her protests. “Don’t you dare put me on the bed sopping wet,” she warned.

  Rochford let out a groan but set her down before the fire, snatching up a large towel and wrapping her in it. He dried her, his movements as slow and careful as he could manage as she turned
about for him, her tawny eyes watchful as he attended to her.

  “You make a wonderful lady’s maid,” she teased him.

  “I know,” he replied, kneeling to dry her feet and then making her gasp by pressing his mouth to her navel and tickling into the little divot with his tongue.

  She snorted and grabbed at his hair. “Oh, th-that tickles.”

  He paused, looking up at her. “What about here? Does this tickle?” he asked, his voice low as he licked along the crease of her thigh where the skin was so very fine.

  She gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair.

  “Or here,” he continued, repeating the action on the other side and then nuzzling into the soft, damp curls between her legs. Her breathing was coming fast now as he pressed a kiss to the seam of her sex. Rochford looked up again, to be certain she was not afraid, or horrified, but her eyes were dark, her lips parted as she stared down at him. He smiled then and kissed her again and then slid his tongue between the delicate folds to the tiny bud hidden beneath.

  She made a soft exclamation of pleasure and surprise, and his own body ached with need at the sound. He remained where he was, on his knees, toying with her until she was clutching at his shoulders.

  “Can’t stand up,” she said breathlessly.

  Rochford let out a little huff of laughter, pleased with himself, and then stood and picked her up again. She stared at him hazily.

  “I have never been carried about so much in my life. I might protest that I do have legs, but they don’t appear to be working.”

  “That’s quite all right, duchess. I like carrying you,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

  “I know.”

  He laid her down on the bed, giving himself a moment to enjoy the sight of her. Her dark hair spilled out over the white linen, her pearly skin glowing in the lamplight, the triangle of soft curls between her legs drawing his attention. Rochford moved quickly, stripping off his trousers and small clothes and climbing onto the bed.